The old road eats our feet, and the open grave,
our hands. We speak of no
connections, but hungry places come, upset
boundaries, and take us, throwing
green blankets over our faces,
drawing silver birds. We watch
for undulating mountains, serpents
spreading their nests of fire over salt
water. A burning point that never was
a star grows brighter, brighter
and disappears. What sets
on us has such great pressure.
The pathway down the unfastened cliff
explodes into strange life: an insect
that moves like electric water. Let out
of our sacs, we siphon oxygen
at the pier. Waste-barrels
line the streets like gaping dolphins
begging for leftovers from blue awning tables,
plates heaped with white and black tartuffi.
Forks lift and set. Naked rocks hold our bodies in sun.
We move by boat to the eastern city.
Jessica Reidy started out life in the forests of New Hampshire, then
frolicked south to Virginia for her BA in English and Creative
Writing, and then went to Europe for love and wandering. She
lives in Ireland now as a professional Gypsy-Witch-Writer. She
enjoys celebrating the exotic and warm weather.